Who is this Phantom?
by Warner Hedgehog
Summary: What if the Opera Ghost has a different identity?


Christine awoke. Her surroundings were peculiar to say the least. As she surveyed the locale she saw a familiar black clad figure sat at a desk, apparently scribbling frantically on a parchment. She recalled being led down to this...world by this man in black, remembered him singing with an astoundingly powerful tenor voice. She studied her captor, if that was the right word: he wore an extremely neat jet black evening suit and for some reason a mask that covered half his face. " She nervously spoke, "I am awake maestro."

The masked man looked up at his guest, "Good morning Christine. Welcome to my domain." His voice was eloquent and precise, every syllable slotting neatly into place.

"Why have you brought me here?" asked Christine.

"You are too good for the world above, your voice too perfect. I wish you to sing for me." replied the Phantom. There was something strangely familiar about him but she couldn't put her finger on quite what it was.

"But Maestro, singing for one person in a," she paused to think of a suitable word, "cavern may seem perfect to you, but it would feel like a sort of rehearsal to me. The only true place for opera is on a stage in front of a vast audience. That is where opera truely lives."

The Phantom looked a little crestfallen. She was correct. "You humble me with your wise words Christine. Please stay here for a little while though, as a kindness to me at least."

"I would be happy to." She responded.

The phantom moved to a piano and started to play. "I am writing my own opera, I call it Don Juan In Peril", he stopped as a thought entered his head, "It's not the best of names, so I may change it."

He played an excerpt from an aria so Christine would have an idea what it was like. "Your Don Juan may be in Peril, but I presume he will overcome his danger at some point. How about Don Juan Triumphant instead?" Christine commented.

The masked figure appeared to pause and consider her words. "Again you demonstrate your wisdom. That title is considerably more graceful. Thank you my diva."

Christine looked around and saw an old wooden horse, apparently an ancient prop from a production long ago. It had certainly seen better days. She wandered over to it as the Phantom continued to manically compose his masterwork, and stroked its muzzle, "What have you seen in your days? What actors have addressed the crowds from your back?" She whispered. Nearby was another old prop, this time it was a small box on which sat a monkey figurine, which was holding a pair of cymbals. There was a small handle on the side: it was a music box. Tempted as she was to turn the handle, she didn't wish to cause any accidental damage, so she left it.

As she wandered about, she kept glancing at the man at the piano and thinking about his mask and why he looked strangely familiar. The longer she stayed in his domain, the more it got to her until she could take it no longer. She had to know the face of the man in the mask.

Casually, as if to take a cheeky peek at what he was creating she sidled up to him. Suddenly she grabbed the mask and pulled it away. He pushed her back and screamed in panic, covering his face with his hand, but she had seen enough of his face and now knew who he was: Joseph Buquet, seemingly perpetually drunk scene shifter was the Phantom of the Opera.

"Joseph? You're the Phantom?" She cried in shock.

He slumped in his chair. "Yes, its true. I am the Phantom of the Opera. I am the Opera Ghost."

"Why?! And for how long? Why all the pranks on Carlotta? Why all the secretive messages? All of your commands to the manager?"

Buquet sighed, "I am a mere scene shifter, or as Lefèvre's predecessor put it: an artless lackey. If I suggested something about a production I would get told in no uncertain terms to 'leave it to the professionals' and to keep my nose out. About 10 years ago I decided to adopt the guise of the Opera Phantom and there were rumours already of various spirits and souls about the place, so what was one more slightly more real Ghost?"

"And what of the tales you tell of the Phantom having a hole instead of a nose, having a stare that can immobilise you and having a magical lasso? Was all that mere misdirection?" Christine enquired.

"Basically yes. It was all part of my disguise: Joseph Buquet was a hopeless drunk and a horrible, lecherous old man. The Phantom was a sophisticated and mysterious musical enigma and artistic genius." Buquet looked mournfully at the floor.

"What do I do with you my tortured genius maestro?" Christine paused, " Why did you teach me to sing?"

"Because I didn't like Carlotta's voice and I thought, correctly as it happens, that you were far superior to her in both your acting and singing ability, as well as being infinitely prettier of course." admitted the Opera Ghost.

"So that begs the question: What are you going to do now that I know your secret?" Christine asked.

"Well, I have a few choices I suppose: I could keep you locked up here indefinitely or I could kill you but after all that time and effort to perfect your voice that would be ridiculous." Joseph paused for thought, "I could confess all and end the charade publicly or I could ditch the mask privately and retire the Phantom, but where's the fun in that?" the Opera Ghost grinned, "The idea I prefer however is that we could work out a clever scheme of sorts between us and have that bunch of pompous nitwits who think they run the Opera Populaire eating out of our hands."

"I think the last idea is the best. Out of interest, is Madame Giry in the know so to speak?" Asked the diva.

"Why do you ask?" Buquet eyed Christine.

"Well, when the new managers arrived, it was she who presented a note from you, and she has never seemed...nervous or frightened whenever you made your presence felt. She was pretty much the only person in the entire theatre who remained calm and took it in her stride." observed Christine.

"You are right of course, but she's only partially involved." Buquet raised a hand, "As the Phantom, I had an incident with Madame Giry some years ago, an accident where I was in a position to save her life. In return she said she would help me deliver messages, and occasionally arrange things for me but she still does not know my true identity. For reasons I do not know and am unable to fathom, she sometimes calls me Erik but that hasn't caused any real problems."

"Erik?" Miss Daae examined Joseph's face, "Maybe, you could be an Erik from some angles."

"I think I'll stick with Joseph if that's OK with you." the scene shifter smiled, "So what do we do young Daae? I think you should return to the surface and I will see to it that Madame Giry tells the managers of your reappearance and insists you rest and that you see no-one: that should get them all talking."

And so it was that Christine returned, and Madame Giry did indeed inform Firmin and Andre of her repatriation, just as the two managers were wading through the small avalanche of notes that the Phantom had sent them. Carlotta, Piangi and the Vicomte were there and they were having an apparently massive argument about the Phantom and Christine, the Opera's next production and various conspiracy ideas that Carlotta was throwing around. The announcement of Miss Daae's return by Madame Giry threw a spanner right into their flow.

Together, Joseph and Christine continued to prank and irritate the Managers and Carlotta.

The following year Carlotta left, having been offered a chance to join a prestigious Opera company in Vienna.

After a record-breaking amount of denial, Joseph eventually accepted that Christine and Raoul were an item and let them be, although he delighted in peppering each production with various creative insults directed at the Vicomte, and sometimes at Christine.

Andre and Firmin managed to last six months longer than Carlotta, the continual notes driving them to distraction. They sold the Opera Populaire to Georges Lefèvre, son of Andre and Firmin's predecessor. Under his reign, the Opera blossomed: He treated the Phantom as a co-manager and the whole thing worked fantastically until in 1886 freak accident caused a devastating fire that totally destroyed half of Paris. The Phantom decided this would therefore be the perfect time to retire, so he spent the rest of his days lounging in the Carribbean.


End file.
